Clear as Day
by JustClem
Summary: You see it, clear as day, how lost she is without you, even before you die. And you keep on seeing it, how she slowly loses herself the longer she lives without you.


You see it, clear as day, how lost she is without you, even before you die.

It's in the lack of friends she has, the way her jaw tenses, her hunched shoulders hunch more every time you mention your other friends and how much you enjoy spending time with them.

"C'mon," you say, enveloping your hands in her wrist, dragging her forward as you stumble back. It's almost comical, how disinterested she looks and how giddy you feel in comparison. "We won't make it if you don't move your hard ass."

She grunts, and you smile when her lip twitches up, just for a moment, before she pulls it down in a vain, fruitless effort to maintain her aloofness. "My ass is squishy and you know it."

You hum, failing to keep a serious face despite all the drama classes you took. "I mean, I can't be certain unless I… do a little research."

You, of course, take a moment to appreciate those round and perfect-looking pair of round buttocks. They, indeed, do not look hard at all. But you won't tell her that.

You wiggle your eyebrows. The innuendo is anything but subtle.

You get a knuckle to your forehead as your response.

"Smartass."

Your look of dubiousness is 40% convincing.

"Chloe, asses can't _be_ smart."

"Dumbass."

"They can't be dumb, too." You give her a concerned, sideways glance. "I mean, I know you dropped out of school and all, but-"

You erupt into a screech and a fit of giggles when she chases you down with a "you're _so_ gonna get it!" that sounds too lighthearted to be menacing.

Your laughter is shrieky, girly, and embarrassing to hear. You cover your mouth because of it. Because, even though Chloe has heard your laughter dozens of times before, you still feel obligated to hide it from her.

(You feel obligated to hide a lot of things from her.)

She pins you by the shoulder onto the Blackwell building. You hear the richoting sounds of horrible modern music turning more horrible when the DJ decides to remix it, which means they basically tuned up the bass and the beat and adds 'sick' echoes.

"Oh. Looks like I was wrong." You flutter your lashes. "Turns out we _can _make it."

"You ass."

"I _have_ an ass, not am one. There's a difference, Chloe."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's just go."

She lets you go, but not before pinching your cheek.

Her throat bobs as she swallows. The small twitches at the corner of her mouth are gone. Though she tries to mask it by pocketing her hands into her leather jacket, you can tell how uneasy she is.

"Can't wait to waste my time acting all buddy-buddy with all these snobby rich friends of yours."

"Chloe…"

You see it, clear as day, that the only reason she even wants to go to this party is because you asked her to, and the thought of disappointing you scares her more than death itself, because you're all she has.

Her uneasiness and your willingness to waste your youth under neon lights and horrible music wipe away what you've wanted to talk for some time; the clear issue that she's too dependant on you, and how much she needs to change if both of you were to grow up.

"Let's just go, Rach."

So you let it go.

* * *

You shouldn't have let it go.

You shouldn't have let it slip past your mind like other unnecessary things. It's not unnecessary. You know it's not. It's borderline severe, urgent, and could grow into something life-threatening if you let it grow.

Even if it brings her discomfort and perhaps humiliation, you should've talked to her about her unhealthy obsession with you, encourage her to try to be better for herself, and establish what kind of friendship the two of you want to have, and maintain for the future, if what you two have should even be called friendship.

But, with heavy music drumming in your ears, sweaty, colorful bodies fusing into yours, and her feral grin in front of you, you can't bring yourself to remember what you should and shouldn't do.

And even if you do remember, you doubt you'd care.

Your hands roam where they shouldn't roam, where they've roamed many times before, and cross the line of friendship.

No, you're not just crossing that line, you're utterly demolishing it with gasoline and a lit match in one hand and naught a glance.

It's never really clear, what you have with her. You just know that labels won't cut it and you'd die for her and you don't want it to disappear. Simple as that.

(You do know. It's clear as day, right from the beginning. You're just too scared to say it. The dreaded L word.)

You feel her everywhere, yet it seems that when you want to feel her lips with your own, your body stops and shivers as if it'd like to crumble into dust.

You've tasted her. Her lips, her neck, her everything. You've tasted her more than anyone ever has. And it better stays that way. You enjoy tasting her. And you don't want to stop tasting her.

You stop tasting her.

You stop - period.

Hopelessness darkens her eyes, and though you can't hear her voice, you see her mouthing your name, exhausted of this sinful dance.

"I'm sorry," you say, and sound nothing like yourself, "I can't, and I'm- I need to leave."

And you, just like her father, her childhood best friend, and her mother in the emotional sense, abandon her.

* * *

You awaken, and know that you're dead.

It's in the sense of stillness in your body, because your heart no longer beats and it doesn't pump blood up all over your body. Because you don't have a heart anymore - not one that beats, anyway.

It's in the lack of weight, because to have weight would be to have a body, and you don't.

Clear as day.

You scream, and scream louder when you no longer have a voice. You fall to your knees and weep without shedding any tears. It's hysteria, calamity, discord, and it spins you round and round and round, never-ending, suffocating, and maddening.

You see _him_, leaning over the body that was once you, yelling at it to wake up. If only he knew that you're awake already, that you're more awake than ever.

You hear a buzz, crackling against a glass frame. It's your phone. And it's ringing. Someone's calling you. It's Chloe.

You bring your hands to your mouth and sob. You're so focused on her you don't notice your photography teacher walk in, observe what's happening, and hit your unstable murderer before they bag up your body and bury it in your safe haven away from the Hell that is this town.

* * *

You see it, clear as day, that she doesn't know how to exist without you next to her, so she pretends like you're still somewhere, waiting for her to come to you so you can be together again, and all she has to do is search broadly enough, try hard enough, and everything will go back to normal.

(Nothing will ever be the same. Normal will no longer be the word to describe her life. You doubt it ever was.)

"Dude, I told you! I have no idea where she is!"

"Bull. Fucking. Shit." She's snarling like a rabid dog. You've never seen her act this wild before, even when she's mad.

Chloe is slipping away, and it's all your fault.

"Seriously, I-"

"I know you two deal for Frank." She grabs Trevor by the collar of his short and pulls him down, and you know she won't let him go unharmed. "Tell me where she is! I swear to God if you _did_ something to her-"

"Jesus, no!" He tries to push her forward and fails after his attempt to peacefully untangle her iron grip from his shirt. He does it again. Still a failure. He grunts. Her look stays the same. It unnerves you, and you're sure it unnerves Trevor too. "Why the fuck would I do that, dude? You know she was my bro."

Was. Past tense.

Heh.

Heheh. Why does it feel good and horrible at the same time, to hear someone refer to you in the past tense? It's like they now don't know you. It's like they now don't care.

Even Trevor has let her go. So why can't Chloe do the same? Do you really matter this much to her?

(Yeah, you do. She loves you so much it'll destroy the world, one day. Through mystical time-travel powers and tornadoes, she'll destroy it, and she won't even know.)

He's heartbroken. Utterly, devastatingly, fearfully heartbroken. She's breaking his heart. She's ruining the few relationships she has with the people of society, the people of the world, the people of reality, and it's all. Your. Fault.

"Price! Let him go!"

The other boy - Justin, if you remember correctly - pulls her back with a firm-sounding, "You know it's not him. You _know_." And Chloe, with such animosity that it makes you want to throw up, glares at who were once her friends and leaves.

* * *

Chloe baits David, and David falls into her trap, unsuspecting. Or maybe he does suspect it and willingly jumps into it anyway, fully aware of what she's doing, and not giving a damn in the slightest bit.

Either way, he's beating her up.

And no matter how dearly you wish you don't, you do see it, clear as fucking day, how much she enjoys the pain, despite her efforts to hit him back, to get even, to really pull up a fight, and not look all that helpless.

Maybe it's an outlet for her. A way to let off steam that grows thicker the longer you're gone even when you're _right here_, you've always _been_ here, right _next_ to her, by her side, if only she'd just _look_-

You hate it. She's killing herself, and it's all your fault.

She comes out of the beating stumbling, caked with the sick color of red and the sicker smell of a corpse, and not giving into the temptation of her bed before she has the ever-comforting Jack Daniels in her hand.

She's deader than you.

"Fucking _hell_, Rach." Her voice is high-pitched. The kind where she's just so flabbergasted she doesn't even think about sounding like herself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck you. Fuck this shit. Fuck everything."

Oh, how badly you want to be near her, to comfort her, to keep her from being alone.

"I'm right here, Chloe," you try to say, even when you can't feel your mouth moving and can't hear your own voice. You've forgotten what you sounded like. You've forgotten how you looked like. You've forgotten yourself. "I'm right here. Please, look at me."

You're sitting on the bed, holding the hand that isn't clutching at the bottle of alcohol. There's a faint sensation of ache in your chest. You're holding her. Can't she feel you? If she can't see, or hear, or smell, can't she _at least_ feel you? Is that too much to ask? After all of the unfairness, injustice, cruelty, and everything, _everything_, is wanting for the girl you love to stop hurting too much to ask?

You'd rather she forget about you than remember you and be in pain for it.

"Rach, why are you doing this to me? Was it something I did? Do you hate me _this_ much?"

No. Never. Your mouth trembles. You love her too much the thought of hating her is worse than the pain of death you've experienced.

If only she knew.

If only you told her, maybe she wouldn't be hurting so much. Maybe she'd even want to live.

"Rach, I fucking love you. I really do. I know I'm bad at showing it, but fuck! Please, please, please never doubt it. Not for one fucking second."

She weeps, and you watch, unable to shed a tear of your own.

You're not there for her, even if you are there.

She's shattering. You're already shattered.

Funny indeed.

"Why?" She whimpers like a dying animal. A wailing deer, perhaps? "I loved you. Fuck, I still do. I thought you'd be different. Why did I think that?! I'm such an idiot! A fucking- a-a- fuck! An idiotic idiot! Fuck!"

The night stretches indefinitely and infinitely. And you have an indefinite infinity to watch her turn from the dorky, awkward teenage girl to the snarky, bitchy dangerous woman who threatens rich murderers to get money from him, even after he's drugged her and taken pictures of her.

* * *

"Darlin', please come home. I'm very worried," says her mother over the phone.

You silently beg for her to listen to Joyce, just this once. But Chloe is nothing if not a rebel, and she'll make the wrong decision just so she can prove everyone she won't ever listen to them.

(There once was a time where you fancied her for that very reason.)

Her mother, who is the only one who haven't fully given up on her. Well, the only living person, that is.

Her mother, who is slowly beginning to give up.

You watch, never too far, as Chloe finishes her cigarette, not at all guilty for having to make her mother wait. It's her fourth drag today. It's not even 10 o'clock.

What happened to her? (Death. Death is what happened.)

"Yeesh, you say that like you give a fuck."

She grins and chuckles in gleeful entertainment and hangs up the phone. No guilt. No regret. Just a swift action, nothing more. Consequences are not a concept Chloe Price is familiar with. You doubt she feels guilt or regret anymore. Or anything, really. Anything apart from spite and longing and a desire to hurt others the way she's been hurt. The way you've hurt her.

She stands, leaning on her truck, which she's parked in the handicapped area.

An RV rolls by and parks near her.

You watch as Frank, one of your many mistakes, steps out of the rusty old vehicle, looking older and drunker than ever, a beer present in his hand.

You watch as Chloe asks him to get insight on Nathan, the man who've murdered you after exposing you in such horrid ways, and the man she's about to blackmail.

You watch as her own dangerous drug dealer try to warn her not to go inside the women's bathroom without a knife of sorts, warning her of how dangerous Presscott is.

"Please, Chloe, don't do this," you beg, literally on your knees, with your hands clasped, as if you were a thirsty, lost soul begging for one drop of water. Kingdom, kingdom. Your kingdom for her life. What's left of your everything for her life. "Chloe, you know he'll kill you. You know."

And then her eyes, ever so slowly meet yours, and Chloe looks nothing like the dangerous madwoman she's known as, and exactly like _your _Chloe; the one with the calm eyes and the sweet smile and the light blush on her cheeks and the dorkiness. The one whose love you've taken for granted.

"It's alright," she says, that gentle smile calming you down, just as it did when both of you were kids who knew nothing of pain and loss. "Everything's going to be fine. I'll be okay."

And you, helpless, watch as Chloe walks into the bathroom unarmed, only for your murderer to murder her too, with one simple trigger, burning a hole in her stomach, giving a way for blood to leak down as a blue butterfly leaves, and you know-

-you know, you know, you know-

-you know that she wants to die, she's wanted to die for a very long time, and it's all your fault, because you-

-just like everyone else-

-left her on her own, and she can't deal with the pain again, she _can't-_

-so she has no choice but to chase after you, to be with you, even if it means leaving behind everything, because she knows-

-she knows, she knows, she knows-

-she knows that you're dead-

-she's known all along, and she knows she won't ever be happy unless she's with you, because she loves you and you love her-

-clear as day.


End file.
